


The Heart Beats the Same

by Metallic_Sweet



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Politics, Post-War Economics, Social Season, Time Loop, tea & coffee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24591910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metallic_Sweet/pseuds/Metallic_Sweet
Summary: Ferdinand dies defending the Great Bridge of Myrddin.And then he wakes up.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 59
Kudos: 539





	The Heart Beats the Same

**i.**

The first time: 

Ferdinand dies, frustrated and hopeless and sad, in the fruitless defense of the Bridge of Myrddin. He dies with a javelin in hand and staring into the pale green eyes of Byleth. He dies, knowing this was inevitable, because Byleth comes with Dimitri and Pegasi corps and the Goddess at her side. He dies and hopes that someone tells Edelgard and Hubert that he fought well. He dies with only that sour hope in his heart as the world goes dark.

There is very little pain. The wounds are too massive to understand. 

And then:

He wakes up. 

The second time: 

It is much the same as the first. The main difference is this time Byleth comes with Claude and wyverns and reinforcements from Almyra. This time Ferdinand does not speak immediately when Byleth tries to engage with him. 

He smiles. Byleth stares.

Ferdinand, because he knows he will die, says:

“We all must sacrifice for what we love.”

He charges this time. He knows he is outnumbered and out-matched. Claude shoots him with Failnaught. 

There is more pain. Ferdinand screams.

And then: 

He wakes up. 

The third time:

Ferdinand tries to warn Edelgard and Hubert. He honestly tries his very best. He writes out everything he remembers from both of his previous lives. He begs them as they gauwk in Garreg Mach’s dorms to believe him. He begs Manuela and Byleth and Rhea the same.

He ends up being sent home to Aegir. The war begins, his father and family are disgraced, and everyone believes him mad.

Ferdinand ends up on the Bridge anyways. He dies this time as almost a nameless soldier against a Goneril battalion. No one will listen to him.

This time:

He expects to wake up.

The fourth time:

Ferdinand holds his tongue. It is, as with all the previous times, the first day of 1180, month of the Ethereal Moon. He wakes, still feeling the deep wounds that took his life on the cobblestones. Axe blades through his chest and back. Ferdinand has come to understand that he is not easy to kill.

This time he accepts the transfer offer Byleth makes him. He joins the Blue Lions and watches Felix train for the White Heron Cup. Byleth gives him an axe and puts him on a wyvern alongside Flayn’s pegasus. Ferdinand learns the axe and flying, and Seteth lends him his spear. He keeps his tongue, and, when he rejoins them at the Millenium Festival, he alone is not surprised by Dimitri’s change. 

It sets him apart. Everyone finds his nonplussed attitude unnerving. Ferdinand speaks, and Byleth listens, but everyone else shies away from him. 

At the Bridge, Ferdinand sees Lorenz in his place. Dimitri has no intention of speaking to Lorenz, and Lorenz has no words to share with them. Ferdinand tries to open his mouth, but it is too late, and when he spots a sniper, raising her bow –

Ferdinand wakes up. 

This is the fifth time. It is again the early morning of the first day of 1180, Ethereal Moon. He can feel where the arrow tore through his light battle jerkin. He has a horrible headache, which tells him exactly how he fell and died. 

This is the first time that Ferdinand weeps. 

He does not get out of bed. He lies back down and weeps until his pillow is soaked. He aches and wonders if he is sick. He does not want to be viewed as mad, and he does not believe that he can stop the war. There are many reasons why it must take place. He knows this from all the previous times. He knows this because his father is corrupt and, if not for the war, Ferdinand knows he must deal with his father’s misdeeds himself. He weeps because he does not know what to do. 

He stays in his room for several days. By this time, he knows everyone’s habits and regular movements, so he is able to avoid running into anyone between his room and the bath. He sneaks down to the kitchen after the staff have gone to bed and takes stale bread and tepid soup back to his room. He ignores the knocks that come on his door by the second day, and uses the lack of nutrition and probable dehydration to force himself into long, fitful naps and unproductive sleep. 

He can’t deal with this. Ferdinand curls under his blanket as someone knocks on his door yet again. The frequency, he has noticed vaguely, is increasing. He hopes they go away. He will die on the Bridge again eventually anyways. 

The fifth morning is when the knocking is abandoned for breaking and entering. Ferdinand manages to rouse himself enough to sit up as Byleth and Manuela with surprisingly Bernadetta lurking behind them break the lock on his door and let themselves in. By this point, Ferdinand is too tired and dehydrated to put up more than a weak verbal fight before they drag him out of his room and to Manuela’s infirmary. 

“What’s going on?” Manuela asks as she all but forces Ferdinand to drink a bitter potion with Byleth lurking awkwardly by the door. 

Ferdinand adores and trusts her, but he does not want to be thought mad again. He also does not want to be sent home to Aegir where he will be thought ill and useless. He swallows the potion and keeps mum.

He sleeps. His dreams are full of his previous lives. He dreams, too, of what he must do in this one. He does not know if he has the strength to watch Edelgard and Hubert pursue their ill-fated war. He does not have the strength to invade Adrestia and know that the truth of Edelgard’s cause will be lost. 

He wakes up on the sixth morning in the infirmary and even more exhausted than the day before. Manuela makes him eat a breakfast of onion soup and bread, and it tastes like ash and mud. Ferdinand thinks about how it felt to be shot by Failnaught. He has thought about it so many times the memory of the pain is almost grounding. 

“Perhaps you should spend some time at home –” Manuela starts, very gently.

Ferdinand shakes his head. He tears the crust of the bread in half with shaking fingers. He thinks of what Manuela looked like when he left to defend Myrddin the second time. She had smiled and embraced him and for a crazy moment he had hoped she knew, that she could stop this –

Only Ferdinand can stop this. He is the only one who remembers. So he must pull himself together and survive. 

He dies this time defending Myrddin. He dies with the knowledge of what Lord Arundel is. He dies understanding what happened in Hyrm and Ordelia. He dies with the knowledge of who the Death Knight is and with shreds of evidence in his mind of Shambhala. He dies on the Bridge because Arundel demanded he be sent there, and Edelgard and Hubert could not protect him because he is Aegir, and his father’s sins stain his house and reputation. 

Ferdinand faces Byleth and Dimitri, and he smiles as Dimitri raises Areadbhar. It hurts just as badly as Failnaught, but his death is swift and easier than others. He thinks he might laugh a little bit even. 

He wakes up the sixth time with a smile on his face. 

This time: 

Ferdinand joins the Golden Deer. His aptitude in flying takes Byleth and Claude aback. Aegir is not known for wyvern riders, and Ferdinand simply smiles in response to their questions. He keeps his peace, and he aims to be carefully friendly and helpful. Byleth considers him, and Claude eyes him with something more towards respect than suspicion. 

The consequence is Byleth makes him take part in the White Heron Cup. Ferdinand practices dancing and finds himself painfully nostalgic. He has not taken part in the ball for the past three lives, and dancing brings back memories of the first time when he was so innocent of the scope and ways of the world. He wins the Cup, and he barely manages not to weep. 

This time, Ferdinand spends more time with Marianne. They do not speak much, and, after she recovers from her initial shock that he simply wants company, they keep close as she attends Dorte and Ferdinand his wyvern, who he names Pan. The war comes, and Ferdinand fights alongside her and Claude and Byleth, and, as he watches from Pan’s back Byleth falling into the ravine again, he knows:

He cannot go back to Adrestia again. 

This time: 

Ferdinand runs from Aegir. He seeks asylum in Derdriu and uses the knowledge that he has gathered over his lifetimes as bargaining chips. Claude listens, and, after a week in which Ferdinand is kept under house arrest within House Riegan, he places Ferdinand as his primary advisor alongside Judith and Nader. He understands without Ferdinand needing to explain why he withheld this information until the war began. 

He does ask, of course, how Ferdinand got it. Ferdinand smiles. He does not know what Claude sees, but he never asks again. 

The next five years are hard. Many of the events are the same, but it is also utterly different. Ferdinand serves on the field as a member of the Alliance, and Claude sends him to Goneril, Edmund, and Gloucester to provide insight and aid. No one trusts him more than they trust Claude, which is as far as they can throw him, but this bothers Ferdinand far less than being thought mad. 

The question of Shambhala, of Those Who Slither in the Dark, looms. 

Still, Ferdinand dies at Myrddin. Death Knight comes along with Dark Mages, and Ferdinand knows that it is because of him. He has not been careful enough, or Claude has delved too deep. Either way, they alerted the enemy. There are a thousand different possibilities, but Ferdinand will not see their efforts and their consequences come to fruition. 

He dies, this time, with Jeritza’s lance in his chest and a bloody grin splitting his lips. 

He wakes up, for the seventh time, laughing.

Ferdinand seeks out Byleth directly this time. 

“Listen to me,” he says, and Byleth blinks because Ferdinand knows he must seem strange, but he has long lost the innocence of his early academy days. “I need to tell you something I have found.” 

He has evidence. There are books in Aegir’s library, buried deep that are his father’s crimes, and he lays them out for Byleth. He has long lost the embarrassment and personal shame for these things because he knows his father’s crimes inside and out. He will not watch the war again, and he will not die again without a fight. 

“Do you believe me?” he asks as Byleth looks over all of this evidence with wide, horrified eyes. “For if you do not, I will go alone.” 

“I believe you,” Byleth says, and they look at him, pale but strong with determination. “I would like you to join the Blue Lions.”

There is no going back. Ferdinand has a hard time remembering the boy he once was. He joins the Blue Lions. His skills levels are far more than anyone expected, especially his flying and lance work. Byleth has him join choir practice often, and Ferdinand finds himself in extra tutoring with Manuela for healing skills. Ferdinand takes to sitting in Mercedes’ mild company and does not think about how her brother’s lance tore open his chest. 

When the war comes and Byleth falls into the ravine, Ferdinand does not go home. He once more seeks asylum in Derdriu with more evidence than before. Claude does not know him as well, nor has he had the experiences of being taught by Byleth, but he does not baulk at the evidence. He takes what Ferdinand brings, and there is no house arrest this time. Instead, Ferdinand is immediately installed to a wyvern battalion alongside Nader. 

“You know too much,” Claude says, which is very true and far more astute than last time. “We have to keep that hidden or someone will try to take your mind.” 

Ferdinand smiles and does not laugh. The worst life was the one where he was considered mad. So he is careful with that and holds his tongue. 

This time, Claude is more cautious with whom he shares Ferdinand’s information. He also keeps Ferdinand closer and Nader makes sure he is never left alone. Ferdinand becomes a dependable asset, and he enjoys his time on wyvern back on the field. He enjoys Claude, Judith, and Nader’s company, too, and he thinks, as the Millennium Festival approaches, of how kind they are beneath all their bluster. He leaves his evidence and the new knowledge they have gathered with them, and he returns to Garreg Mach to have his war. 

He lives a little longer this time. He dies on Gronder Field, Bernadetta’s arrow through his chest. Dimitri will not listen to reason, and Byleth and Claude are not able to stop the flow of battle. Ferdinand is, oddly, at peace with this. If Dimitri can be reached, if he can somehow be reasoned with: 

It will all be worth it. 

He hopes, as he plummets out of the sky, that this is enough. 

**ii.**

It is not. 

Ferdinand gasps awake for the eighth time and nearly falls out of his bed. He sits, sweating and shaking, back in his eighteen-year-old body and still hearing the rush of air before he inevitably impacted with the ground. Ferdinand clutches his arms around himself. He feels like he may be sick. 

He realises, in a stark epiphany that does make him wretch, that he needs to stop dying. 

That is the commonality. Of all his actions, that is the only event that is guaranteed to occur. He might have lived a little longer this past time, but he still died. It doesn’t matter if he is mounted or on his feet. He dies, and all he gets is a consolation prize in knowledge and repetitious time. 

There is no Goddess. There are no Gods. If there were, Ferdinand would curse them until he grew hoarse. 

This time, Ferdinand keeps to himself for a few weeks. Byleth has chosen the Blue Lions again, and Ferdinand accepts their recruitment offer when asked. He cannot hide his unusually high and varied skills, and he cannot account for what seems to everyone else his sudden change in personality. He spends time in the library, and he takes quiet tea with Lorenz, who easily assumes that Ferdinand’s issues are related to trouble at home. Ferdinand thinks about seeing Lorenz in his place at Myrddin. 

He goes to Byleth then. It takes him a long moment to draw his thoughts together. Byleth gazes at him, curious and unassuming. 

“You should recruit Lorenz,” Ferdinand says, and Byleth blinks, only a faintly questioning. “I know his attitude is troublesome, but I think he would fit in well.” 

Lorenz accepts the invitation. He laughs about it as he and Ferdinand share tea. Byleth apparently chose to flatter him, rather than let on that Ferdinand had had a part in the offer. To Lorenz, Ferdinand smiles, and they talk about how nice it will be to work together until graduation. 

They will not graduate. But that is not for Ferdinand to tell. 

Back in his room, Ferdinand sits down at his desk and _thinks_. 

Trying to survive the war is much harder than simply being part of the war. 

Ferdinand goes with Lorenz after Byleth falls into the ravine. He tells Lorenz that he intends to amass troops and resources of his own, banking with the gold he took from his House’s treasury. It is not theft. He has simply put into play what he had once planned to do lifetimes ago when he only meant to pass judgement upon his father after graduation. 

“I had an inclination this would happen,” he says when Lorenz gazes at him askance. “My father has taken an evil path. I know his role in the trouble in Ordelia and Hrym. I wish to reclaim my family’s name and honour.” 

It is very different from all his previous lives. Ferdinand stays for a while in Gloucester, hiring and amassing his own troops. He negotiates with Count Gloucester for their passage to Derdriu, and he approaches Claude this time with command of two full battalions. The Roundtable is called, and they treat his information about the war effort seriously, although they all can tell he is holding something back. It is less suspicious than good sense; he needs them to trust him but also desire something else from him. It will help keep him alive. 

“You have been planning this for a long time,” the Margrave Edmund observes. 

“I did not plan for the war,” Ferdinand says because he never has; he has only reacted to it, “but I meant to pass judgement on my father after graduation. I was naïve to wait so long.” 

They do not trust him, but they acknowledge the truth of his words and respect his input and information. He is not as close to Claude as two lifetimes ago, but Lorenz treats him as a valued friend. He forms a deep friendship with Marianne again, and Ferdinand winters in Edmund between skirmishes. Lifetimes ago, he also had a friendship with Hilda, but they have grown too different now and are merely acquaintances. 

“I think at heart we are the same,” Marianne says one evening as the Millennium Festival draws closer.

Ferdinand, who had been going through cavalry maneuvers with her, blinks. “Oh?” 

Marianne nods. She gazes at him for a long moment, clearly pensive. Very astute. It makes the hair on the back of Ferdinand’s neck stand up. 

“You’ve experienced something horrible that you cannot tell anyone about, haven’t you?” 

Ferdinand feels like he is falling. This is like dying. He has done that so many times before. 

Marianne’s face falls. She reaches out. Takes his hands. The reins have slipped from them, and their horses have come to a stop. Ferdinand realises that he is trembling. He feels very cold. Marianne rubs his hands between her own. She is trying to make them warm. 

“You do not have to tell me,” she says, very kindly. 

It tears open against all the things that Ferdinand has had to stomach and push down and bury within his heart. It draws out the horrible sound that always wants to escape his lips. Marianne smiles at him because, even if she does not know what Ferdinand must keep hidden, she understands. 

“It is hard, isn’t it?” she says as he grips her hands. 

“Yes,” he sobs, wretched and wrecked and so very relieved, “thank you. It is.” 

It is in this moment, as Marianne allows him to cry upon her shoulder, that Ferdinand realises he cannot do this again. 

The thing about war is that it is innately dehumanising. 

Ferdinand realised this during the lifetime he was thought mad. Even though he was more well-liked, it was infuriating to be treated like he needed care. In that lifetime, people took his feelings and Ferdinand himself too much into account, and they always meant well. In the scope of the war, though, that meant he was regulated to where he could have little effect and do little damage. He still died in the end. 

This changed him. Ferdinand knows that he has become someone wholly different than he was in his first few lives. He has become harder because he knows he has to keep some secrets, and he has become manipulative because he has to make sure people need him either for information or for his hard-earned skills and resources. Ferdinand does not like the person he has become, but he understands the necessity. 

He refuses to take an evil path, even if that means he will survive. 

This is driven home when, after a Roundtable discussion, Count Gloucester points out:

“You conduct yourself as someone far older than your age.” 

Ferdinand, who had been about leave to go riding with Lorenz and Leonie, pauses. He turns back and finds the Count staring at him as he does Margrave Edmund or Countess Kupula. They are the members of the Roundtable who are his seniors. 

“I conduct myself how I must,” Ferdinand says. 

The Count observes him. Ferdinand lets him. The boy who went to Garreg Mach Academy in hopes of putting off dealing with his father’s misdeeds is long gone. He has lived and died eight times over. 

This is his eighth war. 

“Yes,” the Count says.

Ferdinand does not know how, but he will make this time his last. 

As the Millennium Festival approaches, Ferdinand plays his hand. 

Lorenz and Marianne will go to Garreg Mach. Ferdinand will as well, but he rides first to Derdriu with the evidence of his knowledge of Those Who Slither in the Dark and Shambhala. He gives it to Claude, who Ferdinand trusts after all this time to be careful, and then rides immediately to rejoin Lorenz and Marianne on the way through the mountains. He feels lighter, even though he cannot share what he knows with them. 

Just as before, Dimitri is deep into his darkness, but he is pleased by the forces that Ferdinand brings. He understands military strength, and he seems to interpret Ferdinand’s preparation as reflective of a personal vendetta. Ferdinand does not disabuse him of the notion because it opens Dimitri to him. He will not be sent alone behind enemy lines as the time he died on Grondor Field. 

Byleth is alive and well. Ferdinand waits until everyone has arrived and sets up in Garreg Mach before he seeks them out. When Byleth looks up from their desk to him, there is a faint knowing in their eyes. 

“Ferdinand,” Byleth says as he lets himself into their room, “you’ve changed.” 

There is no denying this, so he doesn’t even try. Ferdinand spends the next week outlining his knowledge and providing the evidence he copied for Claude to Byleth and then Gilbert, Seteth, and Manuela. He unfolds each piece of knowledge as if he is taken by fever. He feels like he is cutting tumours that have grown within himself. They pile up on the war room floor until he is surprised that he has anything more to offer. 

And there is more. There is so much more. 

This time, they do not disregard him. They might think him mad, but it is because of his knowledge rather than the impetus of it. They listen to him, and they take his books and the diaries he has kept for the past several years, and they promise to take all of his words into consideration. Ferdinand nods, bows, and turns. 

He feels angry and hollow and deeply, utterly frustrated. 

He does not tell them, of course, that this is information from past lives. He refuses to think of them as failed lives. He has to believe, at least a little bit, that there is hope. He needs to survive longer, and the war has to lead somewhere. He does not hope to be able to save Edelgard or the rest of the Black Eagles. He has long since given up on such dreams. 

He goes, without realising it, to the church. Dimitri is there, looming over the broken altar and muttering to himself. Marianne is there as well. She looks up from her prayer at Ferdinand’s approach. She does not know the reason for his intense meetings, but she would also prefer not to. Ferdinand comes to sit by her left in the damaged pews. 

“You look tired,” she says as Ferdinand allows his shoulders to slump. 

“I am tired,” Ferdinand says. 

It is the most simple thing he has said in years. 

Ferdinand’s knowledge is heeded. 

They take the Bridge to Myrddin from an Adrestian commander Ferdinand doesn’t recognise. He lingers for a long moment in the battlefield clean up, gazing at the stronghold entrance. He has died there enough that it looks strange and unreal to see another body there. He is glad, as Lorenz calls to him from within the stronghouse, that he does not have a memory of Lorenz’s dead body there, too. 

They push onto Gronder Field. Ferdinand does not die because he is sent to provide air coverage to Dimitri and Sylvain’s cavalry advance rather than towards the archer’s hill. They ignore the hill for the most part. Bernadetta does not die. Edelgard retreats and Claude keeps Alliance loses to a minimum. Ferdinand wonders, as Edelgard is rushed from the field, where Hubert is. 

He has the wild thought that, if only they could speak, things could be different now. He understands their war. He does not know if Hubert would listen. He does not know if he will get close enough to either Hubert or Edelgard to have a chance to tell them that he is on their side. They will all be on the same side, if only they may speak. 

Battle is not the time to speak. War robs everyone of reason at the worst moments. 

Rodrigue dies as does Fleche, who Ferdinand only belatedly recognises. She is changed from the girl he once knew, both by her womanliness and her grief. She had kept away from him, likely to keep her identity secret, and Ferdinand had too many other concerns. He takes her body and helps coordinate her return to House Bergliez. He is suddenly aware that the war is emptying that large house. 

Surviving, Ferdinand thinks as he sits and drinks a cup of Almyran Pine Needles, is much more difficult than dying. 

“That was kind of you.” 

Ferdinand jolts. The dregs of his tea slosh in his cup, but he manages to keep from spilling. In the half-shade from the dorm’s awning, Dimitri stands. His eye is clearer than Ferdinand remembers it, even back in their academy days. He looks upon Ferdinand, present and very tired. 

“Kind of me?” 

Dimitri nods. He does not step forward nor does he move back. Ferdinand remembers how Areadbhar felt cleaving through his chest and belly. He had accepted that death easily. It clarified a great deal for him. 

“Her family will appreciate having someone to bury.”

They have buried Rodrigue swiftly here in Garreg Mach. Felix handled it well, but it is easier to lose a parent than a child. Ferdinand learned that, in the lifetime he was thought mad and fighting alongside common soldiers. 

“Caspar is the last one now,” Ferdinand says because it is better than trying to argue with this new, unknown Dimitri. “House Bergliez has been both blessed and cursed with many children, so they have treated them as expendable.” 

Dimitri blinks. He looks down at his feet and then away to the lawn that borders the dorms. In between them, the pot of Almyran Pine is becoming over-brewed. 

“The professor said that I should speak to you,” Dimitri says to the grass and weeds. “To understand what I have missed.” 

Ferdinand breathes in. Out. Dimitri draws his gaze back. He looks upon Ferdinand with the attentiveness of someone lost and in need of an anchor. He is, Ferdinand realises suddenly, weak without other people. 

But so is Ferdinand. So is everyone else. 

“Alright,” Ferdinand says, taking the pot by the handle and getting to his feet. “Come with me.” 

Dimitri listens. 

Claude leaves Fódlan and the Alliance allies with the Kingdom’s cause. 

It is the best choice. This is the most expedient way for the war to be ended, and the Roundtable knows of Those Who Slither in the Dark. Everyone has the same information, and Claude leaving means that he can begin his own investigation without risking anyone else’s lives. It is extremely intelligent. Genius, even. 

It does, however, sit ill in Ferdinand’s gut. He feels abandoned, but for reasons that have nothing to do with the Claude of this life. He misses Claude, Nader, and Judith, and he misses the closeness that he had with them because it made him happy in that life. He will never have that again. 

There are many things he will never have again. There are many people who will still die. That is the reality of war. That is the hardest part of surviving. 

Ferdinand, in a moment of weakness, uses his day off to lock himself in his room. He sleeps. 

Ferdinand loves Adrestia. 

He hates the corruption that broke it. He hates, at times, his own father and everyone who was involved with the Insurrection. He despises Those Who Slither in the Dark, and he also sometimes abhors Rhea for her selfishness and uncaring ambitions. Ferdinand also hates himself for these bitter and dark feelings because they are not helpful to anyone. They only make him angry and very, very sad. 

They ride to war in Enbarr, and all of these feelings roll through Ferdinand’s gut. With the combined forces of the Kingdom and Alliance, Adrestia will fall. Ferdinand knows that Edelgard does not have enough resources to hold a siege, and Those Who Slither will not provide assistance to a lost cause. Rhea is weak, if she is even alive, and she would never assist Adrestia under Edelgard’s banner. Humans are all disposable. They are proxies for the so-called greater cause.

This is how Ferdinand meets Hubert on the battlefield. The streets of Enbarr are broken, and the walls of the city are breached. Ferdinand flies ahead with the Spear of Assal and the Ochain Shield. He lands on a crumbling wall and stares, for the first time in many lifetimes, at Hubert upon his dark horse. 

Hubert looks up. 

He smiles. 

“Running into you in the capital like this…” 

Ferdinand grits his teeth. Breathes in through them. 

“It is almost sentimental.” 

“Hubert,” Ferdinand says, and he can hear the beat of wings behind him, Seteth and Ingrid coming, and he only gets one chance, this one time because he can’t do this again, he _can’t_ , this is it: 

“I know about Thales.” 

The war ends. 

Edelgard is changed. The monstrous form she was forced to take is not something easily reversed. Her mind, however, is intact, and Hubert is able to tend her. Those Who Slither in the Dark retreat from Enbarr, running through the underground tunnels when they realise that all of the forces of Fódlan know who they are. 

Ferdinand loses control of himself. He tries to give chase, fueled by blinding rage and too many lifetimes of grief and terror. Dimitri, Byleth, and Marianne manage to catch him, and it is only Dimitri’s incomprehensible strength and Marianne’s strong Silence that prevents him from trying to single-handedly take on the fleeing Thales and his cronies. He rages until exhaustion restores his thoughts, and then he weeps, deeply ashamed and incredibly frustrated. 

“How did you figure it out?” 

Ferdinand looks up. Edelgard gazes down at him, changed and warped by the Hegemon transformation. It is not entirely reversible because Those Who Slither took the technology that facilitated the transformation with them. She cannot move on her own, and Hubert has yet to figure out how to help her down safely from the dias. 

“Ferdinand?” 

A rough laugh. Ferdinand realises it is from him. He shuts his mouth. His head and ears ring. 

This is very painful. But he can bear it. 

“You would not believe me,” he says because he knows it to be true. 

Edelgard shakes her head. Hubert looks at him. Steady and sure and suddenly, madly, Ferdinand realises:

This time, he is not dead. 

So he tries. 

**iii.**

When all is said and done and Thales is defeated and Shambhala is in ruins and Rhea withdraws from the Church for good:

Ferdinand goes home to Aegir. 

He spends a good year almost entirely alone. Ostensibly, it is to come into his role as Duke Aegir and to deal with the ravage the war wrought on his territory. In reality, it is because a good part of Ferdinand is so severely damaged that he does not know how to deal with a world without war. He feels acutely like this new world of a united Fódlan does not belong to him. He fought for it. He adores it. He will do all he may to see it flourish and prosper and grow. 

He cannot see a place in it for himself. 

When he isn’t working on tax and agricultural reform or restructuring his house or helping to till and plant the fields, Ferdinand takes to sleeping. He trains to stay battle ready but otherwise he looks forward to nothing but bathing and bed. He falls behind on his personal correspondence, and the guilt makes communication outside of business nerve-wracking to the point he gives up except what is necessary to be polite. Sleeping is easiest, even when his dreams are all nightmares and bad memories. His family all perished from the war and pillaging and plague. There is no one to tell him what to do with his private life. 

The year passes. As the anniversary of victory in Shambhala approaches, Ferdinand receives an invitation signed by Byleth and Dimitri and stamped with Edelgard’s seal to come to Derdriu. They intend to hold a festival there, celebrating the recently ratified trade agreement with Almyra, where Claude is now King. The invitation is formal, but there is an additional note on a strip of paper inserted into it. It is in Hubert’s spindly hand.

 _Everyone would like to see you,_ the note reads. _None of this would have been possible without you._

Ferdinand sets the invitation and note aside. It is not yet sundown. He has not had more than breakfast today. He does not remember the last time he brushed his hair, although he bathes every morning after training. He has lost track of how many personal notes and letters are in the overflowing stack on his desk. He feels acutely that he is a disappointment. To himself and to everyone else. 

Unable to deal with this, Ferdinand goes to bed. 

Ferdinand accepts the formal invitation and does not respond to Hubert’s note. He drags himself through the motions of preparing to leave Aegir. He doesn’t have any celebratory clothes, and he has no idea what the summer fashion is this year. He packs his armour and what he wore during the war, and he departs alone on his wyvern only to realise that he hasn’t brushed his hair in probably a week. He did not bring his hairbrush. 

Ferdinand, flying over Gronder Field and remembering dying alone behind enemy lines, has the epiphany that he might be ill. 

He arrives in Derdriu with the setting sun and feeling so conflicted that it is difficult to greet Byleth and Lorenz, who meet him at the city gates. His appearance seems to surprise Byleth and alarm Lorenz, but they are kind enough not to mention it in public. They do pursue it, however, as soon as they are inside of the now vacant House Riegan, which has been into a central government building and temporary guest housing. 

“Ferdinand, are you well?” Byleth starts.

“Obviously not,” Lorenz says before Ferdinand is able to pull himself together to respond. “I knew when you stopped responding to my letters, something was wrong, but –”

“I am very tired,” Ferdinand says because he is. “I would also like a bath.” 

They leave him alone to this. Ferdinand has no doubts that this is not the end of it. They inadvertently set him up in the quarters that Ferdinand spent time in while under house arrest several lifetimes ago. Ferdinand ignores the dinner tray that was set out. He crawls into bed after forcing himself to brush his hair with a comb he finds in the dressing table. He curls on his side. Shuts his eyes. 

He dreams of Failnaught tearing open his chest. 

He wakes up to knocking on the door.

For a moment, Ferdinand is badly disorientated. He gropes for his bedside dagger only to realise that he had left it in Aegir. His spear is against the wall, and it is only after noticing it that Ferdinand begins to calm down. He coughs. His mouth and throat are so dry they hurt. 

The knocking sounds again. 

“Hello,” Ferdinand says, gravely and with effort. “I am awake.” 

A brief pause. Ferdinand manages to shift on the bed to a slightly less panicked position as the door creaks open. He expects Byleth or Lorenz again. 

He does not expect Hubert with the breakfast cart. 

Hubert, with the door open and halfway into the room, clearly did not expect Ferdinand to still be in bed. From the way he freezes and his eyes widen, he also clearly did not expect Ferdinand to be nearly naked. Ferdinand remembers, from the dredges of his long-lost concerns with court propriety, that it is proper in Enbarr to wear nightshirts and trousers. Ferdinand has slept in only his underwear for the past seven lifetimes at least. It was easier than dirtying his limited clothes supply. 

“You,” Ferdinand starts before having to break off to cough on his dry throat. “Apologies. You can just leave that –”

“I,” Hubert starts before he breaks off but not because he needs to clear his throat; he starts again as he steps into the room, pushing the cart in fully. “I wanted to discuss a couple things with you. That is why I brought breakfast.” 

“Ah,” Ferdinand says, very tired again. 

He drags himself out of bed and to the dressing bench. He rummages around in his luggage for a fresh informal tunic, shirt, and trousers. He listens awkwardly to Hubert lifting the lid on the dinner tray and the long pause when he discovers it untouched. Ferdinand pulls on his trousers, realising he has not brought any shirt stays. He wants nothing more than to go back to bed. 

He draws the line at shirking his duty. Hubert would not be here if it isn’t important.

“Hubert,” he says, turning around as he pulls his hair from under the open collar of his shirt, “is this a matter of state or –”

“Ah,” Hubert says, and he meets Ferdinand’s gaze with a pinched look that is so much like the lifetime when Ferdinand was thought mad that it stirs to life a flame of anger in his chest, “no –”

“Then what is it?” Ferdinand asks, and it is hot and temperamental; he feels raw and flayed open. “If this is about my conduct –”

“There is no issue with your conduct,” Hubert says, and the pinched look becomes narrower on his own frustration. “The issue is your lack of communication –”

“I have communicated as well as I am able,” Ferdinand says, struggling to keep his voice level; it hurts his dry throat. “May I have some of that tea?” 

Hubert takes a deep breath. He holds the untouched dinner tray in his hands. For a tense moment, they stare each other down. 

Ferdinand’s blood pounds in his ears. 

Slowly, Hubert bends down to set the dinner tray on the bottom of the cart. He does not say anything. Ferdinand steps forward and lifts the tea tray. There is a cup of coffee on it. Ferdinand takes it and sets it by the seat closest to Hubert, who is straightening. He sets the unfilled cup and teapot on the table before returning the tray to the cart. 

“What,” Ferdinand says, with forced calm, “tea is this?” 

“Almyran Pine Needles,” Hubert says, also with forced calm. “Breakfast is eggs, tomatoes, and toast.”

“Ah,” Ferdinand says because he has nothing polite to say, so it is better not to speak at all. 

They sit. Ferdinand pours himself tea as Hubert shoehorns the uncovered breakfast tray beneath his elbows. The eggs are soft-boiled, the preferred Derdriu style. They sit neatly in their little cups. Back when he and Claude were close, Ferdinand learned these were Claude’s favourite breakfast food. Their texture is soft, and it makes the yolks taste even richer. 

Claude’s favourite tea is also Almyran Pine Needle. The smell of these things together –

“Ferdinand.”

It is a task to look up. Hubert sits across the table. His hands are folded on the tabletop. It is intentional. Hubert does not need a weapon to be a threat. His hands are his weapon. 

“Edelgard and I would like you to consider serving as Adrestia’s Prime Minister.” 

A bark of a laugh followed immediately by coughs. 

Ferdinand cannot take back the reaction. He reaches for the tea, which is painfully over-brewed, and takes a couple of small sips. It is acidic, and the heat hurts his tongue and throat. He sets the cup down and coughs a bit more into his fist. The eggs are getting cold. They will be rubbery if he eats them. 

“I am not sure I am in the condition to have this conversation.” 

Across the table, Hubert breathes out. It is not a laugh, and it is not a sigh. There is, when Ferdinand manages to look up and meet his gaze, a great deal of understanding there. 

“Perhaps not,” Hubert agrees, and he shifts, beginning to stand. “I will get you some soup. Do you want a healer?” 

Ferdinand grits his teeth. Forces his jaw to unclench. He aches in all manner of his being. 

He has a duty to survive. 

“Yes,” he says, which makes clear relief wash over Hubert’s face. “That would be for the best.” 

**iv.**

In the months that follow, Ferdinand moves from Aegir to Enbarr. He buys a modest house in the south-east of the city, which is closer to the sea and to the rebuilding opera. Edelgard and Hubert offer him rooms in the castle, but Ferdinand needs some space. He stables his wyvern, Isolde, and stallion, Tristan, in the castle stables, though, because the grounds are better and more familiar for them. They were bred for war and have no place in a civilian stable.

Ferdinand senses he no longer has a place among civilians either, but that is neither a productive nor useful thought. He applies it to Tristan and Isolde and vows to try to do better in regards to himself. 

He spends most of his official duties outside of Enbarr. Edelgard is not able to travel due to the damage the Hegemon transformation wrought up on her body, so Ferdinand, as her Prime Minister, travels in her place. Most often, he travels to Fhirdiad, where Dimitri manages the political life of Fódlan, or to Garreg Mach, where Byleth is now Archbishop. He goes back regularly to Aegir for a week or two at a time to conduct business and help with plantings and harvests. 

He heeds Manuela’s advice that he not spend much time alone. She does not know the depth of his experiences, but her advice that loneliness exacerbates their ill-effects is correct. He renews his friendships with Lorenz and Marianne. Lorenz acts more annoyed than usual for a while, but Ferdinand knows it is a mask for his continued concern. Marianne enjoys riding with him, and she convinces him to fly with Hilda when he visits them both in Goneril. Ferdinand struggles still at times to respond to personal letters, but he makes an effort. When he feels a dearth in words, he simply writes that and hopes they understand. 

When he is in Enbarr, Ferdinand spends a lot of time with Hubert and Edelgard. Often, they meet separately. In the castle, Ferdinand attends to Edelgard, who keeps primarily between the throne room and her quarters. Hubert and Ferdinand meet as Edelgard retires from the day, and, as the months roll on, Hubert takes to walking Ferdinand home afterwards. They stop in the recovering marketplace, and Ferdinand watches Hubert peruse the jewelry and sweets to find things to cheer up Edelgard. 

“There is new hope,” Hubert says after Ferdinand returns from mediating a trade dispute between merchant guilds in Nuvelle and Oches, “that Linhardt, Lysithea, and Hanneman’s research will help facilitate more mobility for Her Majesty.” 

“Oh?” Ferdinand asks as he sets their boots in the stand next to his front door. “Please tell me about it. I will put the kettle on.” 

They fall into this habit slowly and barely realising it. Ferdinand only realises that he and Hubert spend most evenings together in Enbarr conversing until late when he checks his household budget and finds he has spent nearly twelve thousand gold in the past year on coffee alone. He overlooked this because this is his first truly postwar budget, and Aegir’s hazelnut and apple harvest was so bountiful that they could export to Morfis and Brigid. Even with the vastly reduced taxes, Ferdinand had made a tidy profit. He spends little upon himself outside of necessities. The coffee is the most expensive item of his monthly sundries besides his preferred Albinean ink. 

Ferdinand sits in his study. He looks out the window. The horizon is only starting to turn light, but the builders for the new opera house are already arriving. A large cart of wood rattles along the recently repaired street, pulled by a Gautier horse. Ferdinand examines the slow and steady progress of the animal, admiring its strength and form in its hard work. He wonders how much Sylvain is selling them for, and what their breeding programme looks like. 

This is what he talks to Edelgard about later that morning. They have a gap between audiences, and they share a cup of Bergamot. Ferdinand cuts and peels them both a peach that Hubert bought from the market the day before. Hubert sleeps until noon usually. He does most of his duties through the night even though his spyring is mostly for general information collecting nowadays.

“I would like to see some of these Gautier horses,” Edelgard says, accepting the peach slice. “I would also like to know if it’s just Sylvain selling them or if other people are reselling them.”

“Ah, price gouging,” Ferdinand sighs, nodding in agreement.

Edelgard eats her peach slice as Ferdinand peels one for himself. She licks the sweet juice from her fingers, watching his work with the knife. It is only after he has put the slice into his own mouth that she speaks again.

“You are looking better,” Edelgard observes, and Ferdinand looks up sharply to find her gazing at him solemnly. “You were very pale and thin for a while after the war. How are you adjusting to –” 

She motions vaguely. It is the only way to indicate the breadth of the situation. Of Ferdinand’s unique place in it. Only she and Hubert know that he has gone through the war eight times. They do not know the details, but they also know without him needing to explain that he died the other eight times. 

Death will change a person. They all have a good understanding regarding this. 

“I did not mean to worry you,” Ferdinand says as he begins to cut a third slice of the peach. 

“Many things worry me,” Edelgard says, and she smiles, showing her ruined teeth. “But I should try to not worry so much. Hubert worries enough for the both of us.” 

This draws a soft laugh from Ferdinand’s lips. He pinches the slice between his left thumb and forefinger and peels the skin with his knife. Edelgard lifts her hand, accepting the slice easily as he passes it to her. 

“Hubert worries that you are bored and lonely here,” Ferdinand says. “That is why he buys you peaches and other exotic fruits.” 

“He worries that you don’t eat enough,” Edelgard says, unrelenting even as Ferdinand cuts himself a slice, “and he worries that you chose to live separate from us because you don’t want us to know you are sleeping instead of socialising or taking care of yourself.” 

Ferdinand stares at the partially exposed peach pit. Edelgard breathes in. Out. She reaches out and rests her hand on his left forearm. Her hand is cool but heavy through his day coat, shirtsleeves, and light mail. The calluses of her axe coat her fingers. They are very thick and deep. 

“Ferdinand,” Edelgard says, squeezing his arm with gentle firmness, “if it wasn’t for you, we would be dead. Consider living here while you are in Enbarr, so you do not have to travel quite so much. You do not have to be everything to everyone. Here, you may just be yourself. 

“We would be happy to have you.” 

Ferdinand is given rooms in the eastern part of the castle. 

The rooms are closest to the library, training hall, and stables. It is on the opposite end of the castle from Edelgard and Hubert, which affords Ferdinand a good amount of privacy. He has free roam of the entire castle and its grounds. The castle staff already are aware of his preferences for Aegir or Derdriu food as well as his preference to do his own weapons and armour maintenance and laundry. The baths are hot by the time he returns from his morning exercise, even though Edelgard bathes in her adjourning room and Hubert does not bathe until very late in the evening. 

It is an adjustment. More than Ferdinand would like to admit. After years of taking care of himself, it is nerve-wracking to have others do it for him. It does lighten his daily load, but it sits ill with him. Ferdinand listens to the castle staff gossiping about the upcoming revival of the social season as he washes his clothes alongside them. He finds not only does he have nothing to add, but the very thought of taking part makes him want to turn tail and run away. 

It has been four lifetimes since he last danced. Ferdinand does not know if he can face doing it again. He remembers with aching clarity how much he enjoyed balls when he was innocent and childish. He does not know how he will be able to get through one now, let alone as the bachelor Duke Aegir and perhaps the most eligible of bachelors on the Adrestian social scene. He thinks, lowly, that he would be better suited to be sent back to war. 

“I would rather go into battle again,” Hubert says completely without Ferdinand prompting him that evening as they share cups of lukewarm chamomile tea. “I have no talent in dancing as I am sure you remember.” 

They are sitting out on the small balcony from Ferdinand’s bedroom. Edelgard is down in the training hall, carefully working with her axe. The recent advances in Linhardt’s research have allowed her a broader range of motion in her shoulders and upper body. She is still limited in her footwork, but the slow removal of her Crest of Flames is beginning to relieve the overall strain on her body. She is visibly panting, but, as she hefts the training axe, clearly encouraged and excited. 

“I don’t, actually,” Ferdinand says, turning back to Hubert to receive a raised eyebrow. “I have never seen you dance.” 

“Then you know what I mean,” Hubert says, very low and dripping with irony. 

Ferdinand feels himself smiling before he realises it. He does not stop the expression, though, because Hubert smiles as well. It feels nice, suddenly, to have someone to commiserate with in an utterly different fashion than Lorenz and Marianne. 

That is why Ferdinand feels comfortable enough to say: 

“In one of my past lives, I won the White Heron Cup.” 

Hubert snorts his tea out of his nose. Ferdinand bursts out laughing even as he fishes his handkerchief out his pocket. He hands it to Hubert after he sets his cup back on the saucer. Hubert takes it as he coughs and wheezes, blinking furiously. 

“Is that –?” he starts before wheezing harshly and being forced to blow his nose. 

“Yes,” Ferdinand says, trying not to chuckle too much. “That’s when I learned the Sword Dance.” 

Hubert chokes, clearly upon a laugh. Ferdinand gets up. He rounds the table to pat Hubert on the back as he coughs roughly into the handkerchief. Down below, Edelgard swings her axe in a wide arc. She is obviously enjoying herself and her renewed range of movement. Ferdinand rubs Hubert’s back as he gets his breathing back under control. 

In this moment: 

He is cautiously content. 

Ferdinand makes the mistake of mentioning, in his letter to Hilda and Marianne who have recently begun courting, that he has thought about social season. 

In all of his lifetimes, Ferdinand never truly considered what life would be like after the war. His memory, as it has always been, is extremely comprehensive; he still remembers the librettos Manuela sang and the ballet’s choreography from when he was five. Dying repeatedly in Myrddin and that horrible time on Gronder Field have, however, become his major bookends. He did not think beyond those deaths, except to try to figure out first how to prevent the absolute tragedy of the war and then, begrudgingly, how to survive. He forgot how to live without war and its horrors knocking on his door and holding a knife to his back. 

This is why he is taken entirely aback when Marianne and Hilda ride into Castle Enbarr with a cart of supplies in tow. There is a short commotion at the western gate due to the unannounced arrival that brings Ferdinand running from his morning training with his sword in hand, expecting fighting. Instead, Marianne is placating the guards who are thrown off-kilter, and Hilda –

“Ferdie!” she cries as Ferdinand skids to a stop, sword still partially raised. “Has your hair grown longer? Let me fix it for you!” 

Hubert and Edelgard are no help. Ferdinand feels ridiculously betrayed as Hubert, when he joins them for lunch and his own breakfast, simply smiles and puts a slice of sausage in his mouth. Edelgard is overjoyed to see both Hilda and Marianne, who have not visited Enbarr since the war. Their interactions are stilted and formal, but it eases slightly as Hilda chatters about her artisan school. Edelgard asks pertinent questions, and Ferdinand knows as the lunch progresses that this has become a matter of Adrestia and Goneril economics. 

“You are doomed,” Hubert says as he, Marianne, and Ferdinand leave Hilda and Edelgard over sorbet. 

“Yes,” Marianne murmurs, eyes lowered in mock piousness. “Goddess, have mercy.” 

Hubert barks on a laugh. He departs very quickly after that before Ferdinand can recover enough to tease him. Marianne smiles in her quiet manner, reaching out and taking Ferdinand’s hand. She squeezes it, very firmly. 

Ferdinand feels like one of Byleth’s fish. Hook, line, and sinker. 

“Show me your quarters, Ferdinand. Hilda will want your measurements.” 

The reality of the situation is that Ferdinand must attend social season. Edelgard is not mobile enough to attend parties and festivals outside of Enbarr, and Hubert is about as welcome at these events as a bag of sharp rocks. Ferdinand is, despite himself, popular. Dimitri and Byleth’s trust in him as well as the acknowledgement of his deeds by the Roundtable place him in an important position of influence. Attending social season as Prime Minister will begin the steps of reintegrating Adrestia back into the structure of Fódlan at large. House Hresvelg and Vestra are beginning to run out of resources to pay reparations, and House Bergliez has collapsed now that Caspar has gone across the Throat permanently. House Varley has already gone into debt. Ferdinand had offered House Aegir as possible payment but was bluntly refused. 

“Your apple cider and mead is too popular here and in Almyra,” Sylvain had said after that disastrous meeting before he and Ferdinand discussed Gautier horses, “and if we lose the Aegir hazelnut exports, we have nothing to bargain with for Albinean herbs. You’re able to provide the quality because you are financially stable, and you hire many hands.” 

“I feel,” Ferdinand says to Hubert after Hilda keeps him up late for two nights in a row fitting him into what feels like a million outfits for the upcoming season, “like I have lost control.” 

Hubert raises an eyebrow. He had come by out of curiosity to see the different fabrics and accessories Hilda brought from Goneril and the Throat. It is more than a little comical to watch Hubert hold up to the crackling hearth and candlelight brightly coloured gossamer silks and deep coloured linens. The purple silk is, Ferdinand observes, quite pleasing in his hands. 

“What do you mean?” 

Ferdinand hums. He sits back on his bed, back supported by his pillow. He is very tired but pleasantly so. The bone-aching exhaustion that usually plagues him is lighter tonight, and his head feels clearer for it. Hubert watches him, piercing as always. It has become oddly reassuring. 

“When I decided to survive,” Ferdinand says, and Hubert lowers the fabric to fold up and place back atop the pile on the overflowing dressing bench, “I knew that I had to see the war to its end. See Shambhala fall. That was my plan. I did not plan on surviving further than that. 

“I think,” he continues as Hubert turns and begins to approach Ferdinand’s bedside, “there is a part of me that expects to die again every time I close my eyes. I will wake up, and it will be the first day of the Ethereal Moon in 1180.” 

Hubert pauses momentarily before he sits down on the side of the bed. Ferdinand watches the sheets and cot dip beneath his weight. The frame of the bed is very old and strong. It does not creak. 

“Is that what you want?” he asks, and this close Ferdinand can see that there is no judgement in his gaze or words. “Are you unhappy with this outcome?” 

Ferdinand looks at Hubert. After Shambhala, Hubert had shorn his hair. Part of it had to be cut away because of a head wound, and Hubert had opted to shave the rest of it off so it could grow back evenly. Since then, he has kept it short unlike most of the postwar fashion. His bangs have grown back in, but he does not wear them as long as he once preferred. 

Out of curiosity, Ferdinand reaches up. He brushes his fingers against Hubert’s fringe. Hubert blinks rapidly, his sparse eyebrows drawing together. 

“Ferdinand?” 

Slowly, telegraphing each shift in muscle, Ferdinand sits straight. Leans forward. He wraps his arms around Hubert’s shoulders. The hand that mussed Hubert’s fringe cups the back of his head. His hair is coarse and wavy. The ends are blunt from regular clipping. It is the opposite of Ferdinand’s hair, which has grown so long that it lies against the small of his back.

Ferdinand lowers his head. He rests his forehead where the curve of Hubert’s neck meets his shoulder. Breathes in. 

Hubert smells like Dadga coffee and Miasma. Strong and fragrant and warm.

“The first time I died, my last thought was how I hoped you and Edelgard would know I died well.” 

Hubert breathes out. A shuddering. His arms wrap around Ferdinand’s waist. Back. He breathes in. 

“I do not mind dying,” Ferdinand says because that is true; he has done it so many times; “but I would rather be here.”

Hubert breathes out.

“Ferdinand,” he whispers.

It is almost sentimental. It makes Ferdinand lift his face. Hubert’s cheeks have faint splatters of pink. His eyes are green. 

The first time Ferdinand died, he stared into Byleth’s pale green eyes. They were hard and contained no light. 

Hubert’s eyes are very bright. 

“I would rather you be here, too.” 

Ferdinand breathes in. Out. He leans forward. Hubert leans in. 

He tastes like coffee.

He tastes like life. 

The war is over. 

Ferdinand is alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Connect with me on [Twitter @Metallic_Sweet](https://twitter.com/Metallic_Sweet)! Additionally, I have created an expanded web experience of this fic on [a dedicated carrd here](https://heartbeatsthesame.carrd.co/) ♥


End file.
